“Come,” repeated Hilma. The young girl took her by the hand and together they pushed their way through the crowd of men and women and entered the yard.
The throng gave way before the two women, parting to right and left without a word.
“Presley,” cried Mrs. Derrick, as she caught sight of him in the doorway of the house, “oh, Presley, what has happened? Is Harran safe? Is Magnus safe? Where are they?”
“Don't go in, Mrs. Derrick,” said Presley, coming forward, “don't go in.”
“Where is my husband?” demanded Hilma.
Presley turned away and steadied himself against the jamb of the door.
Hilma, leaving Mrs. Derrick, entered the house. The front room was full of men. She was dimly conscious of Cyrus Ruggles and S. Behrman, both deadly pale, talking earnestly and in whispers to Cutter and Phelps. There was a strange, acrid odour of an unfamiliar drug in the air. On the table before her was a satchel, surgical instruments, rolls of bandages, and a blue, oblong paper box full of cotton. But above the hushed noises of voices and footsteps, one terrible sound made itself heard—the prolonged, rasping sound of breathing, half choked, laboured, agonised.
“Where is my husband?” she cried. She pushed the men aside. She saw Magnus, bareheaded, three or four men lying on the floor, one half naked, his body swathed in white bandages; the doctor in shirt sleeves, on one knee beside a figure of a man stretched out beside him.
Garnett turned a white face to her.
“Where is my husband?”